That sounds kind of bad really, but I don’t sit and think about my posts when I write them usually. I have a tendency to overthink and overanalyse at the best of times, and so to sit and think about what I want to say when I’m purely writing to get stuff out of my head into a format that’s communicable and as a memory to myself would be severely counterproductive… that being said, this post has had a fair bit of thought.
I started trying to write about this the other day, and stopped, because it was sounding a bit melodramatic and a bit incredulous, however as the week has gone on, I’ve remembered more and more just what experiencing this can be like, and I need to get this out and down, if only to serve as a reminder to myself for the future just why I *need* to deal with this. Today, I got some stuff written by pen and paper about it and I’m hoping that a third time will be the charm, so to speak.
There have been many times when I’ve gone to try and explain what I’m feeling, or thinking, and I just can’t. Words choke in my throat before they have a chance to be vocalised, I feel like if I go any further then something Really Really Bad will happen.” Anxiety!” is the answer to come from anyone who thinks they know anything’s lips. Perhaps, in part, definitely. The fact that I believe I’m worth less than the scrapings from someone’s shoe, and don’t deserve, let alone am allowed to be able to discuss myself in anyway definitely contributes to feeling anxious, definitely, but there’s more to it than that.. and it’s a feeling that I get at other times as well – usually when I’m feeling raw and vulnerable. Something I’ve been feeling especially over the last couple of weeks. When it isn’t related to my attempts to express myself, it tends to start quietly, building up to a tumultuous roar that refuses to back down or go away. Always located in the same place. Only once have I been able to do anything with it other than bury it, and that very nearly broke me. I call it ‘The Void’ And the best way I can explain it is as follows:
Imagine a bottle – a wine bottle is probably best for this. Like all good vessels it is there for storing things. In this instance, it’s the place you put all of the crap that you don’t know how, or don’t want, or can’t deal with. As more happens, more stuff is added, but that’s OK, because it’s a strong bottle, and it’s contents are compressing nicely, and there’s plenty of room, so you add more and more stuff to it – not consciously, not deliberately, and you probably don’t even realise it’s what you’re doing. But the more that goes in, the greater the pressure gets. As the different things get more compacted, they begin to combine, and to form one big thing instead of lots of smaller things, and you could swear, sometimes that it was beginning to look back at you when you went to check the bottle… so you do the only thing you can think of. You seal the bottle and try and forget about it.
It even works for a while. You get the breathing space to begin to learn how to actually deal with situations you never should have had to experience, so not so much goes into the other bottle, and you keep on top of that… and you go about life… until one day… you can feel a weird sensation in your chest, almost like something is squirming around. You pay it a little attention and it dies down, apparently sated, and you carry on, but before long, it comes back, and you find that isn’t enough, and that the writhing increases, and with it, you swear you can feel claws… so you push back… and once more, it dies down for a while… Eventually, you manage to block out the sensation, but what’s left is somehow worse, and you feel like there is a black hole at your core, threatening to suck every part of you into it. Empty. Black. Nothingness. Acknowledging it only brings the feeling back. The tearing, clawing writhing feeling that is going to rip you apart from the inside before spilling out into everything you are,taking you and everything and everyone you care about with it. The pain with it is real, but you know it isn’t caused by anything physical. Explaining it sounds crazy, to the point that when you stop and think about it, you’re not even sure it’s possible… and you find yourself physically pushing it back down constantly, because if you stop, then that’s it. You don’t know if there’ll be anything left. You find yourself wishing that you could show someone what you feel, but you’re also sure that if you took someone else’s hand and placed it over that spot of both nothingness and screaming agony, they would feel nothing. But you would feel a little better. You’ve seen that happen before. And so instead, you find yourself holding yourself together, pushing it back in, back down, physically sometimes, because you’re afraid of what would happen if you let it take it’s course. That there would be nothing left to recover. You tried uncorking the bottle once before- it was open for seconds, before you jammed it back in and you lost yourself for days … and it took someone else coming to find you curled up in a corner sobbing uncontrollable and literally holding you for three *hours* until you regained enough wits to stop feeling nothing but the pain and to realise that you were still there.
The thing is… I *know* that this needs to come out. The contents of my bottle are not pretty, hurt like hell, and probably have a vendetta against me for being shut away for so long. But it meant I survived. It meant I could continue. In my bottle is all the stuff I remember, the things that haunt me in my nightmares. The things I’m remembering somewhere inside, when I look like I’m daydreaming. the things I don’t remember because they’re too much, my own self hatred, guilt and everything else I’ve taken on because ultimately I feel like it’s all my fault. The bottle is cracking under the pressure, and I’m not sure how much longer I can keep it together, and I can’t risk a volcano erupting, and people being injured in the fallout. Enough people have been hurt because of my existance.
Thing is, I just don’t know what to do… I don’t know if there *is* a safe way of starting to siphon some of this off, and keep my sense of self, let alone my sanity intact. But I know I have to do something. And time is starting to run away. from me. I can’t ask anyone to help pick up whats left either. It’s unfair on them. This is a mess of my own making, even though I know that I simply did what I had to do to survive then. These are the consequences of that. And I fully admit that frankly, I’m fucking terrified. But I’m more terrified of not being able to control it.
I think this is a good definition of stuck between a rock and a hard place. I just wish I had a clue as to where I could go…or what to do…